


Stories of Garvund

by undigniFiend



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Gore, Human Livestock, Monsters, Rescue, Trolls, Vore, Weird Biology, conflicting instincts, mentioned safe vore - he's tempted, mixed feelings about eating people, no actual safe vore - sorry, post-apocalyptic fantasy earth overtaken by giant predators, protective monster, small adventurous child scares the hell out of sad troll dad, too edible to meet the neighbors, yet another variation on the concept of trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undigniFiend/pseuds/undigniFiend
Summary: A sad post-apocalyptic fantasy region born of my own need to vent about and process sensitive topics. Even the monsters that have subjugated humanity are sad. It really just sucks for everybody. But some are trying to figure out how to make it suck less, in their own ways.Chapter 1: Depressed Troll Hermit Adopts Two Humans; Tries Hard to Be a Good Dad
Relationships: Morakûl/disappointment
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Stories of Garvund

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if you got here from my Trollhunters fics, heads up: these trolls are different. They're a concept of troll I was mucking around with before I even heard of Trollhunters.
> 
> Originally posted on my dA. I've made a few small edits since then, and have been thinking about it again, and thought it might be worth updating here. Will probably update in disjointed pieces.

Morning dawned gray and drizzly, with distant rumblings of thunder through the pines. Morakûl debated between leaning on the gas and trying to beat the rain, or forcing himself to slow enough for his roaring, salvaged, Anchor-class rapid assault bike to better handle the wet mountain roads. A wreck, even a bad one, was not likely to do him any permanent harm, but he disliked the thought of having to blow his emergency funds on what parts he could not salvage.  
  
He erred on the side of caution, and caught a glimpse of the Pinerun's dark ceramic rooftop through the trees ahead, half-built into the cliff wall behind it, before the rain came down in earnest.  
  
The Pinerun was more of a rest-stop than anything else, too far beyond the outskirts of the nearest, sprawling city to be in convenient, everyday reach, but close enough that it saw its fair share of travelers, and close enough to Morakûl's remote den to make drop-offs and supply runs mercifully quick. Most customers stopped by for a warm, dry nest before moving on the next night, but some came for the curiosities and the nostalgic atmosphere.  
  
Morakûl parked his Anchor in his usual spot, up close and in full view from the open archway that housed the Pinerun's dual porch-atrium. The latter was a favored place to relax with food or drink, catch up on current events, and enjoy the clear, mountain air; and it was therefore a favored place for the proprietors to cover in samples and other little temptations.  
  
Morakûl didn't anticipate anyone messing with his half-junked, paint-stripped bike. Though a curiosity in of itself as an old military skirmishing model, the Anchor looked more likely to gash anyone unfamiliar with its idiosyncrasies than to fetch them any worthwhile profit, much less get them to the next town over. But it had proven far more reliable than it looked, as Anchors had a lingering reputation for being. And he would rather not risk having to walk all the way back home if someone was in a playful mood and had the right tools. With luck, the owners of the few other vehicles in the lot would already be bedded down in the Pinerun's nests to sleep until sundown, and Morakûl could let his paranoia rest with them.  
  
Pointed ears ringing after the engine cut-off, Morakûl adjusted the strap of his satchel across his chest, hefted a full canvas sack bound in a small tarp to keep the contents dry, and stepped up into the raised atrium, ducking out of the rain as it pattered on the shingles overhead and hissed through the surrounding trees. Droplets seeped through his mane and chilled his scalp, and he reflexively bared his fangs as he palmed away a few itching trails meandering down his brow toward his eyes. Briefly distracted by a tempting scent, Morakûl spared a glance for a tray of little bones wrapped in glazed liver and garnished with maggots the flies had left. He forced his eyes and thoughts away, stepped down to the inner level - the raised atrium platform also acting as a levee so rainshowers such as this wouldn't seep through the door into the below-ground interior - and pushed on through into the main-room shop.  
  
There was a wistfulness about the Pinerun's architecture that Morakûl liked. Much like his own den, the Pinerun was in part a dugout, like the clan-dens of old. The temperature, already mildly cool outside from the late summer rain, dropped to a refreshing chill as Morakûl entered and closed the seasoned wood door behind him. The surrounding stonework radiated a sense of peace and security, soothing his instincts much like a cave would, and the air held an enticing mix of clean, freshly scrubbed stone, the sharp-sweet smell of rough-hewn beams, savory smoked meats, and warm spices. The wide windows flanking the door let in cool early light, dappled from the rain, countered and enhanced by the warm glow of hanging lanterns, oil and electric alike.  
  
"Welcome back, Zanok," Nenda said over her shoulder as she straightened out an arrangement of trinkets and jars on the far wall's main shelf. "Thought the rain would've delayed you till the next night. Supposed to clear up shortly before sundown."  
  
"Good to know," Morakûl said, trying to be polite. The rain could do as it pleased - he had every intention to return to his den as soon as possible. After crossing the shop, he opened the satchel at his hip and set the contents on the stone counter jutting out of the wall under the shelf. Eight jars of olunseed paste infused with flakes of kossroot, two jars of ground spicy duskelm bark, twenty braided bundles of harrow-wick, fourteen pouches of dried bloodorn fungi, three tinctures of bitterblade, and four large canisters of roasted wild nightoak beans. Nenda eyed the collection appreciatively before accepting and unwrapping the canvas sack, taking a moment to savor the earthy aroma of smoked annak pods.  
  
"Hard to save those for the customers," she muttered, setting the sack of pods aside reluctantly and digging through her coin-pouch. The fingers of her right hand, tipped in finely maintained claws, twitched as she eyed the new additions to her stock and calculated what was owed. "To think you can make all that from stuff in the wild," she added, handing Morakûl his due.  
  
Nenda never cheated him. Morakûl still gave the coins a cursory check, knowing he was likely to pay more than a few of them back before leaving, and turned to seek out the necessities on his list. "If you know where to look and have the time," he said, idly wondering whether she was insinuating something or whether he was just being paranoid again. Perhaps Nenda's appreciation for the Pinerun's atmosphere differed from his; to her it was her home and place of business, but to him, it was a reminder of the old ways, back when everything a clan did together came from 'stuff in the wild.' But foraging and herbalism were dying arts, and much of what Morakûl knew, he'd had to teach himself.  
  
"Don't run off yet." Nenda ducked into a small side passage that Morakûl suspected was more of a nook. "I've got your last delivery's containers somewhe - Ah yes, here." She reemerged with a crate of neatly stacked jars, carefully cushioned along the sides by familiar, handwoven pouches, and set the whole thing on the reception counter. "If you want to stay for the day to avoid the rain and get a fresh start back this evening, you know I won't charge. Here, I'll show you the new overhang you can keep the Anchor under."  
  
Not for the first time, Morakûl wondered how Nenda saw him. She sometimes made him feel like some wayward stray she intended to adopt. He supposed if he became her clan's herbalist, they wouldn't have to pay him anymore. Morakûl felt a little stab of guilt at the thought. Nenda's clan had only ever been welcoming and fair to him, and didn't deserve his suspicion, no matter how reflexive it was.  
  
Perhaps he'd even like being part of her clan, if they actually saw fit to take him in. That particular brew of guilt and cautious hope barely won out over his desire to speed back up the mountain to his den and its isolated silence. "I think I'll take you up on that," he said, and Nenda made no effort to hide her smile or the brief, approving thrum that sounded from deep in her chest.  
  
Nenda lent him a cloak to keep the worst of the rain off him, and donned one herself before stepping out and guiding him and his Anchor to the newly-built overhang, an extension of the dark-shingled roof supported by stonework columns and tucked against the cliffside. Morakûl soothed his pride with the reminder that he had intended to leave as soon as possible, and keeping his ride out of the rain for a few minutes would have made no difference, but if Nenda thought him foolish for leaving his Anchor out in the weather, she graciously kept it to herself.  
  
"I'm glad you decided to stay," Nenda said as they returned to the shop, taking the cloaks and ducking behind the reception counter. "And I hope this won't change your mind. I know it's none of my business, and I understand if it's not something you wish to act on. But someone came in here two weeks ago asking after you, and left you a letter."  
  
Morakûl tried not to bristle. It could be a good thing, he told himself. Someone may have liked the samples of his craft enough to extend an offer of extra business. It happened occasionally. But something in Nenda's eyes as she held out an envelope and a little square of paper made Morakûl's hackles rise.  
  
The little square of paper was a photograph, unmistakably of him. His real name sprawled across the envelope accusingly, in his mentor's handwriting. Curiously, the envelope was also made of paper, rather than leather, and was scored in a few places by inattentive claws.  
  
Morakûl took them, folding them away in a pocket on the inside of his jacket as if getting them out of sight would repair the damage they had already done. "Thank you, Nenda."  
  
"I understand if you'd rather keep going by Zanok," Nenda said gently.  
  
"I do." The picture and the letter would go to the fire-pit where they belonged, he resolved.  
  
"Would you like something to eat?" Nenda offered, heading toward the pit-room. "Dharak's out hunting, but we have some leftovers."  
  
Morakûl managed a grateful smile. "No thank you, Nenda. I already ate."  
  


* * *

  
  
He didn't burn the letter, but he didn't read it, either. He decided to put the decision off until after he'd slept. Some distant, muffled squeaking had featured throughout his dreams; a little bird flailing on the ground with a broken wing.  
  
Morakûl awoke in one of the dark, subterranean guest-nests a little before sundown, half-surprised at how soundly he had slept, and toying with the notion of pushing his luck. Or perhaps building a new den a little closer. Whether he liked to acknowledge it or not, Nenda's clan were his last link to the outside world, and should he have an emergency, they would be his only means of support. Morakûl was certain they had their own support system - extensions of the clan who lived near and far, and could be called upon at a moment's notice. But even if he never became a part of their clan, something in him soured at the idea of his absence in their hypothetical time of need.  
  
'Trolls are not meant to live alone.' The last words his clan's founder and mentor had told him eight years ago, just before Morakûl had left his clan, his city, and all means of contact behind. Morakûl rumbled quietly, annoyed with his elder for being right, even if leaving had felt like the better option. Now, he was not so sure. He climbed out of the nest, collected his satchel, and strapped on his segmented footguards - which allowed the soles of his feet comfort from the worst of the ground while allowing space for his claws (thumb-like dew claw included) to flex as needed during climbing. He would read the letter after he returned to his den, he decided while roping back his mane.  
  
"Stay for breakfast," Nenda greeted him, catching him at the top of the climbing-shaft from the guest caves. The salty, iron tang of fresh blood, frothy cream, and spices wafted from the pit-room, just down a wide, short tunnel adjoining the shop. From here, Morakûl had a good view of the central fire-pit and the meats laid out on trays around it. Small, slim, hairless limbs, skin of various shades still attached. Bloody ribcages, neatly cracked down the sternums, still full of their own viscera with a collection of roots and herb bundles tucked among the organs. Some of the heads were still attached, faces contorted. They looked so fresh he thought he saw one of them twitch, and his stomach stirred at the thought of a rich meal before his journey back to his den.  
  
Morakûl let his face adopt a practiced, appreciative look while an old, familiar part of himself fell back into the routine of shutting down, along with all notions of building a closer den. "Tempting, but I need to go," he said, turning and searching the shelves of the shop. Sunset through the windows combined with the warm glow of the lanterns, filling the room with matte amber light.  
  
"At least have a bite," Nenda insisted. "Dharak just caught these humans today. Young and sly, they gave him more trouble than he bargained for. He's in the pit-room if you want to say hello. He'll tell you all about it."  
  
"Thank you for your hospitality, Nenda," Morakûl said automatically, mentally checking off his list of supplies as he gathered them. As quickly as he wanted to get it over with, he forced himself to be thorough. He didn't want to come back until he had to drop off his next shipment.  
  
He only noticed the strange look on Nenda's face after setting his supplies on the reception counter, and an old, familiar dread soured the remainder of his appetite. He refused eye-contact, waiting expectantly for her to tell him what he owed so he could pay and leave.  
  
Dharak padded into the main room with three clay mugs balanced in his claws, and the bittersweet steam wafting from them could not even partially resurrect Morakûl's appetite. "Stay for breakfast," Dharak said with gentle authority. "Nenda worries about you, living alone out there. Be kind to her and help yourself."  
  
Hemoq. A mixture of human milk, marbled with bright red, artfully stirred blood, heated and topped with spices. It had been Morakûl's favorite drink in his youth, but it wasn't enough to tempt him anymore.  
  
The hurt in Nenda's eyes was.  
  
Morakûl swallowed, accepted the mug Dharak offered, and murmured "Forgive me, Nenda."  
  
Nenda nodded, some of her smile returning. "I can imagine how you may be out of sorts right now," she said, and Morakûl knew she was referring to the letter she must have thought he had read.  
  
Morakûl followed them to the pit-room, resigned and wondering how he was going to let himself eat. Wondering how he would feel once he left. Would his stomach ache with nausea or satisfaction, and which was worse? How long would it take him to gag himself? Would there be anything left but bones by the time he returned home? Even so, how could he apologize to them? Wasn't it stupid to even try? Perhaps he was stupid. Perhaps running off had been a stupid overreaction, and Nenda and Dharak were just trying to help him return to sanity. Perhaps the taste of blood would help him remember how to be a troll, and not a paranoid, stupid, desperately lonely runaway.  
  
Morakûl wasn't sure how many humans Dharak had caught, what with their bodies cut up and distributed around the fire-pit. He hadn't even butchered all of them. The legs and lower torso of one lay discarded, slick guts congealing where it had been bitten in half, the spine sticking out of the mess until the point where strong teeth had fractured it. One human huddled in the back corner, her eyes vacant, yet horribly aware.  
  
Something hot and cold spread through his veins from the knot in his chest, and Morakûl decided he was okay with staying stupid. He set his mug on the counter, grateful that he had not taken so much as a sip. "Actually, I'll take mine to-go."  
  
"You in some kind of hurry?" Dharak asked doubtfully, crouching by the fire-pit and selecting a neatly severed arm.  
  
"Yes." Morakûl somehow managed not to snap the word. "The live one."  
  
Nenda grimaced. "The doe's taken fever. Honestly, Zanok, you don't have to settle for scraps."  
  
"She just dropped a brat," Dharak said speculatively, crunching tiny bones. "Not much of a breakfast, but a good treat."  
  
The edges of Morakûls vision darkened, and his temple throbbed as his blood-pressure spiked. It was almost like living among his old clan again. He barely kept his tail from lashing. "Has the baby been eaten?" He had no idea how he had managed to sound so calm.  
  
"You want it?" Nenda asked, eager to please.  
  
"I want both of them," Morakûl insisted. He padded across the room, knelt, and carefully reached for them, mindful of how his claws could shred human skin if the doe thrashed.  
  
The doe was covered in blood, both from birthing and from the butchering of her former companions, and Morakûl's dual-purpose stomach ached and complained loudly. The satchel wasn't safe, his instincts argued. Someone could make a grab for them. The satchel would not protect them. The satchel would not heal their wounds. The satchel was wholly inadequate, his belly was empty and waiting, and his mouth was already watering to help them glide in, away from the hell of watching their fellows butchered, and the question of how long it would be until it was their turn. If ever there was a time to host someone, short of their imminent death, this was it. But it looked too similar to the fate he intended to protect them from. Morakûl ached so badly to hold them, it left him dizzy.  
  
Grudgingly, Morakûl admitted that it gave him some insight into why the vast majority of Garvundan trolls took the easy route and strangled their innate protectiveness in order to re-calibrate their instincts so humans were reclassified from 'companion' to 'prey'. And given the nearly identical sensations of hunger from the desire to eat and the desire to protect, it was a disturbingly small gap to leap.  
  
He could now understand why some trolls saw the unique, symbiotic functions of their stomachs as a control mechanism - and perhaps, given the mysteries surrounding their origins, it had been - and why eating the very humans their instincts wanted to protect was not just considered part of a wholesome diet; it was an act of dominance and rebellion against the heart of what separated them from the rest of this world - after all, no other creature known could do what they did. And it was the most scathing irony Morakûl had ever comprehended, that such a rebellion separated them in the only way that mattered to him.  
  
The unresponsive woman, covered in a sheen of sweat and sticky with fluids between her legs, held her silent newborn so closely Morakûl did not see it at first. But though her eyes were glazed, they still moved, watching things only she could see, and the baby's tiny, sleeping heartbeat was a reassuring focus.  
  
He lifted the mother and child up and carefully tucked them into the satchel, leaving the flap open to let them breathe. His instincts still railed that it was not enough - if he so much as tripped or bumped into anything, he could crush them.  
  
Dharak huffed somewhere behind him. "Bit greedy, aren't you?"  
  
Greed was so far from anything on Morakûl's mind that he had to untangle a knot of confused offense before he could respond. "If you want me to pay for 'scraps', I will," he said, standing easily and padding back toward the shop. Even Nenda's eyes could not guilt him now, and he tossed the letter and photograph into the fire-pit as he passed.  
  
He selected a few more items from the shelves, trying to anticipate what his humans might need, but accepting that there would inevitably be some trial and error. After setting the new items with the rest of his supplies at the reception counter, along with another satchel to carry them in, Morakûl waited for Nenda's verdict on payment.  
  
"Unbelievable. He always been like this and I just didn't notice or something?" Dharak growled under his breath. And for all of Morakûl's anger, he could understand Dharak's. They had not only shown him hospitality, they had invited him into their lives. And here he was, simultaneously taking advantage of that kindness, and rejecting them. Morakûl could not think of them in simplistic terms, and had no satisfying solutions. Nenda and Dharak were good to him, and horrific to humans, and he did not know how to reconcile those facts.

They would not listen any more than his clan had, anyway. Or even if they did, they'd make all the appropriate, supportive noises while insisting that they could never walk the path he was on. As if he was crazy. As if their wills were any weaker than his. How could the mightiest species in the world feign helplessness in the face of something so trivial as a craving?  
  
"It's alright, Dharak," Nenda said dully, studying the goods Morakûl had chosen. Soot darkened her fingertips, but Morakûl found that he did not mind. Everything she could have possibly learned from the letter, whatever there was left to read, had just played out before her.  
  
Dharak's keen eyes followed Nenda's, and he frowned as recognition dawned and honest bafflement replaced it. "You don't eat them?" he asked.  
  
"I don't owe you an explanation," Morakûl said, each word falling like a log onto a pyre. With one hand he protectively covered the satchel at his side, and with the other he gestured to the supplies. "I owe you coin."  
  


* * *

  
Seven Years Later  
  


* * *

  
  
Morakûl gave a half-hearted rumble of annoyance, mostly out of habit at this point. "Should be asleep, Aya."  
  
He could hear her picking her way - tiny, wrapped feet stepping lightly through the moss and pine needles, deftly navigating roots and rocks with a confidence born of familiarity with this part of the woods. "Not tired, Mork," the little girl answered, just flippant enough that Morakûl had to wonder if she had actually grown out of her infantile pronunciation of his name, but persisted just to sass him.  
  
Morakûl debated the usefulness of warning her about bears and wolves that prowled the mountain forest. But his sheer size warned even the bigger predators off, and she knew she had nothing to fear as long as she stayed close to him.  
  
On one hand, Morakûl appreciated that his very presence did not automatically terrify the tiny human child, but on the other, perhaps a little fear would have made her obedient. Aya hunkered down, impossibly small, and started pulling long strands of young harrow-wick right alongside him. Tiny as she was, she could only really manage the smallest ones. They fell into an easy rhythm where he would braid the strands into bundles, occasionally selecting more from the little pile she tried to build up for him.  
  
"You're leaving to trade tomorrow night," Aya said with a smile she could not quite hide.  
  
Morakûl hummed disinterested agreement, already thinking up tasks to keep her busy and well-behaved for her mother, should she be too restless to sleep again. "I'll be back the next morning," he said. "It will be like I'm not even gone."  
  
"Do you trade at the lights?" Aya asked. He followed her gaze through a break in the trees, overlooking a cliff, the mist-shrouded foothills below, and the distant, western horizon. Morakul recognized the lights of Garvund's capital, like faint, fallen star clusters, their glow reflecting off the clouds.  
  
"No," he said. "That is a bad place."  
  
"Why?" Aya asked, her hands stilling, her soft little face upturned, and her big, dark eyes reflecting uneasy speculation. Morakûl privately rescinded every wish he had ever made that Aya had been born easier to scare, even for the sake of getting her to listen. She was so rarely afraid that he often forgot the effects human fear had on him. His mouth watered, his stomach tightened, and he could feel how easy it would be to just lean down and open wide. Aya was still so small she would barely make a visible bump in his stomach. Just tiny fluttery sensations. He kept himself very still.

"Is that the place that hurt Mama?" Aya asked.  
  
Morakûl swallowed in an attempt to dispel the urge, holding back a growl at himself while he was at it. Self-denial sharpened the hunger and made his belly ache, but he could live with that. He had never swallowed either of his humans, and he had promised himself he never would. He did not need to traumatize them to keep them safe.

"One of them," he admitted. Lora had been cursed with a long, hellish saga before arriving into his care. "The world is very dangerous. Most places will hurt you."  
  
Aya's little brows drew together and she fidgeted in confused indignation, like a little bird ruffling her feathers. "What could hurt us when we have you?"  
  
He could not fault her logic, at least from her perspective. Her world was confined to his den, her mother, the little distance he allowed her to explore through the forest, and whatever books she had enough skill to read and discuss. He was the most dangerous thing she knew of, and he only ever kept her and her mother safe. But perhaps he had neglected to protect her from the worst dangers of all.  
  
"Any troll who is not me," Morakûl answered, pausing his work to give his words more weight. "The world is full of them. So many, you could never count them all. And they do not love you. They never will. To each and every one of them, you are just a little snack, and no matter what you do, that's all they will ever think of you. That's why we live out here, far away from them," he said. "So they can't hurt your mother anymore, and so they can never hurt you."  
  
Aya stared up at him, big dark eyes searching. "Did they hurt you, too?" she asked.  
  
Morakûl huffed, surprised and grudgingly impressed. "I hurt them first," he confessed, resuming the braiding of another bundle.  
  
"Why?" she asked.  
  
Morakûl wondered if she meant 'Why did you hurt them?' or 'Why are you sorry?'. So he answered both questions. "I expected better of them."  
  
Aya was silent for long enough that Morakûl half-expected her to give up the topic. "...If you expected better," she started, hesitant and hopeful, "maybe some of them deserve better."  
  
It was too short a leap from that thought to 'Maybe we don't need to stay out here alone,' and Morakûl believed that tentative hope had the power to destroy him someday if he let himself dwell on it. It was such a sweet thought, but so risky as to be out of reach.  
  
"Maybe," he said, more dismissal than acknowledgment. "Do you remember what this herb is called?" he asked, hoping to distract her.  
  
He managed to divert Aya's attention to little herbalism and foraging lessons until she started yawning. Then he gathered up the night's collection and carried her back to the den.  
  


* * *

  
  
Morakûl's den was neat and efficient, originally built with only himself in mind, and it had served only himself for almost a decade before he had taken in Lora and her then-newborn. For him, it was a fairly cozy space, and he spent most of his time outside anyway. For the humans, it was a veritable fortress with lots of hiding places and plenty of room to run about.  
  
In a fit of romantic sentimentality, Morakûl had originally designed his home as a traditional dugout, like the clan-dens of old; half underground with lots of stonework to echo the soothing ambiance of a cave. Unlike a sprawling clan-den, however, it was essentially one roughly ellipse room with a fire-pit at the focus furthest from the entrance, and a latch in the ceiling to allow the smoke out while still trapping the heat. Shelves lined most edges, stocked with supplies both foraged and bought. Later on, he had added a minor extension as a private wash-room for Lora and Aya, for their comfort and dignity, both of which Lora had rarely been granted before Morakûl took her in.  
  
The high, narrow windows let in barely enough light for Lora's liking, so Morakûl had splurged on several supply runs to bring back little electric lights that his contacts sometimes shipped in from some city or other. Morakûl felt at home in the dark, but even he had to admit to the greater attention to detail the light allowed him to put into his craft. He could easily see in the dark, but color-sight in brighter settings helped alert him to the more finicky aspects of his work. Sometimes the only way to tell the difference between an edible snowplum and a potent laxative, short of a fit of gambling, was the hue and lack of any faint, pale branching patterns. And always, the willingness of a contact to do business with him relied upon his ability to catch such distinctions.  
  
Morakûl checked over his shipment a little before sundown the next day, puttering around the den and casually stepping over and around his humans and their things as Lora tried to get Aya to eat some stew and wild greens, and Aya complained that she wanted seed-cakes with goldcherry jam instead.  
  
"You can have some after you eat your supper," Lora insisted.  
  
"I won't be hungry after supper!" Aya protested, as if that was the entire point.  
  
Lora gave her daughter a look, ladling a bowlful of their latest fare from the dark iron pot next to the central fire-pit; a rich, nutty broth full of tubers, wild onions, sweet nightoak beans, mushrooms, and flavored with mountain thyme and savory ground olunseeds. "At least you'll have filled up on something healthy."  
  
"Seed-cakes are healthy," Aya grumbled as Morakûl leaned over them, plucking the new tinctures of bitterblade out of a blanketed crate by his nest. "Mork, tell Mama they're healthy."  
  
"Stew's healthier," Morakûl said, not even glancing at them as he tucked the jars carefully in a lined side-pocket of his satchel.  
  
Aya huffed. "You always take her side."  
  
Someone needs to, he thought. Lora might never fully heal from all she had suffered, but she had made significant progress, and no longer flinched when she looked him in the eye. It had taken her a long time to look him in his eyes to begin with. Out loud, all he said was "'Cause she's always right."  
  
Before he left, Morakûl assigned Aya to practice her glyphs. She was to fill up ten pages in her new notebook before bedtime, and he would check them over when he returned the next morning. Lora, having been taught glyphs in her own youth as a pet, was perfectly qualified to check them over as well, but Morakûl hoped she would spend her evening on something more comforting.  
  
Knowing glyphs was useful, even if a significant portion of Garvundan reading material harped on and on about trollish superiority and other such propaganda - even in the casual subtext, such assumptions leapt out as if with teeth of their own. Morakûl worried about Aya developing an inferiority complex from taking such things to heart, and so carefully screened whatever books he brought back, sat with her, and made sure she saw the lies and nonsense for what they were - even if most Garvundan trolls believed it. He refused to let them harm her even in so indirect a way.  
  
Aya did not suffer from delusions of inferiority. However, now Morakûl worried that she might be a bit too clever. She would regard his guidance with a thoughtful skepticism and point out that he hadn’t been fooled by this garbage, so of course there should be other trolls who understand, too. Morakûl couldn't summon the heart to tell her that there had been a time when he had indeed bought into it. And at this point, he wasn’t sure if such an omission was protecting her or himself.  
  
Morakûl trudged down the path to the shack that housed his Anchor. He tightened the strap of his satchel across his chest before mounting the Anchor, bringing it roaring to life, and riding down the rest of the trail to the main mountain road.

* * *

  
Morakûl arrived at the Pinerun just a little before midnight. Indulging a paranoid impulse, he parked his Anchor further out in the lot from his usual place, partially concealed behind a large cruiser. It would take just a little longer for anyone to recognize it if they looked from the front windows, and in Morakûl's experience, a little longer could make all the difference.  
  
He should really get the damn bike repainted, he thought, and trudged across the lot to the Pinerun's entrance.  
  
Something in the satchel moved, and Morakûl cursed out loud before he could think to stop himself. Yanking the cover of his satchel open, he stared down into wide, dark eyes set in a tiny face, huddled among bundles, jars, and packets.  
  
For a small eternity, Morakûl could not process what emotion he felt. It was something beyond outrage, protective terror, or feeble denial in the face of apocalyptic stupidity. A kind of existential dread tinged all his memories, as if his life had been leading up to this one terrible revelation that he had thrown all hope of companionship with his own kind away for the sake of a creature so witless as to blithely endanger herself after becoming dearer to him than he knew how to express.  
  
"Are you out of your fragile little skull?" he asked, calm in the detached, this-isn't-real way of a troll mangled beyond his body's extensive ability to regenerate. Strange, he didn't feel as if his mouth had moved. Perhaps it hadn't. Perhaps he'd wake up in a few seconds, back in the den where his humans were safe and things made sense. "How did you get in there?" How did he not notice? And if she could pull stupid stunts like this, how was he ever going to rest at all ever again? "Why did you get in there?"  
  
"You said you weren't going to the lights," Aya wheedled, as if tone could make her words any less unreasonable. "You said 'maybe'. Maybe some deserve better. You wouldn't trade with bad people, Mork. Please don't be mad at me."  
  
"You're grounded," he intoned.  
  
"Aww."  
  
"For eighty years."  
  
"Awww!"


End file.
